I came within a foot of him on more than one occasion during his 5 day gallivant around our city of sails. My camera burned with desire to take a snap, but I obeyed the published rules and just gazed, wondering what it must be like to be one of the most well known people on the planet.

David was smaller in person than what he appeared on the telly (like so many actors), and not as good looking, however he was a lot cooler, and that’s what counts. He was dressed incognito, drank boys beer and was a gent to both guys and his forte, the ladies. I am not sure if his PR people schooled him on how to act, but all the stories I heard about him while he was here makes him out to appear like a cross between a 6 month old cute little Labrador puppy dog, Mother Teresa and Barrack Obama.

Apart from Beck-a-mania the season to be jolly is at full throttle. Last week I went to 3 events at the newly opened bar called Cassette Number 9, on Vulcan Lane. A dark, atmospheric upstairs venue with booths, a well-appointed balcony and a style that could handle a mini-rock concert, hardcore club night or a 21st birthday.

Oakley opened their NZ flagship concept shop on Queen St last Thursday, they call the “O Store”. I’m told the number crunchers from America came down to tweak and pick holes in the place before opening, but the fit-out was so precise all they could recommend was a lick of dusting on the stoop. XBOX launched their version of Playstion’s “Singstar” game on Thursday to, theirs is called “Lips” and has a much more contemporary, user-friendly feel.

Somehow I managed to fit in an hour of Te Radar at the Classic Comedy Club. He was supposed to speak for 1 hour about his hit TV show “Off The Radar”, where he lived on a farm for months and came across all kinds of chores, hurdles and darn right disgusting things. But garrulously he wittingly held court for 2.5 times that, so long so that management had to call for a 15min recess after he’d shot well past the 60min mark, and showed no sign of slowing. He’s a classic NZ comic gem, the thing is, he’s actually getting funnier the wrinklier he becomes, and the longer his ginger locks extend. I feel that before long he’ll become our modern day Billy T.

I was lucky enough to be asked to judge the final of Miss fallen Angel at L.A.X on Thursday. Sitting beside a current All Black and a NZ surfing legend, I felt a big out of my league, but we bonded and got to work scrutinising the ladies as they tried to impress us in their various costumes. Bikini comp junkie, Hannah Norton, took the tit-le, and a deserved Jessica Pendergrast came close behind. The show was sweetly broken up by 2 dance interludes from the super sexy Vixens who had the crowd howling (they did similar routines for my last party with a similar fizzing crowd reaction). Absolutely pooped, I recoiled into bed at the reasonable hour of 2am.

I chose to forgo the Ministry Of Sound warehouse party in Avondale, seeing international hard house master Andy Farley destroy a sold-out Studio (with equal legend Nick Sentience as his accomplice), and cheering for the L.A. Galaxy, as they pussy-foot around the Oceania All-Stars for an easy win, in favour of a jaunt around the Far North (I never knew there was actually a region of NZ called the Far North) with a leggy blonde.

We chose Keri Keri as our base and speed toured around in a late model luxury black Range Rover feeling omnipotent. The treaty grounds at Waitangi was an eye popper, as it was my Great Great Great Grandfather, Henry Williams, who translated the treaty form English into Maori. So I got my picture taken with his portrait. We caught a ferry from Paihai to Russell and had a grand chin-wag with some local guys on board. They were heading over to go lawn bowling as part of the first leg of their work Xmas party. The boys rattled off the do’s and don’t about the picturesque historic village, then after the placid 30min boat stint we bid bye bye with a homeboy handshake.

It felt like we were in another country, time stood still as we peddled around, up hill and down dale on our hired push bikes; The sun blazed and my skin cried out for warp factor 30+. During the Tour de Russell, I was amazed at the sheer number of NZ first’s, oldest’s and most’s there were. It held the country’s first/oldest police station, church, pub, mission, yacht club and residential dwelling, it was situated on the shores of the most scenic harbour in the southern hemisphere, and up top on the point was the most expensive resort (that we couldn’t get into).

The next day, with scorched skin, we went in search of sights, we found an extremely flash golf club (Kauri Cliffs) that when we illicitly snuck in, were chased out by a grizzly man on a red quad bike. Tails between our legs we climbed a massive mound to gork at Greenpeace’s Rainbow Warrior memorial that overlooks where the wreck now lies on the bottom of the ocean, in Matauri Bay and near a bunch of cute islands. The next tourist attraction I wanted to view was biggest Kauri tree in the country, we couldn’t find it, as both mine, and my co-pilot’s, map-reading skills were gimpish. But we did find a 15min loop track on the side of a metal road that housed some jolly jumbo ones, one had a girth of 13.5m, so that quenched my thirst for locating Tane Mahuta, who holds the world record with a circumference of 20cm more.

Time to chill after all the excitement, and we chose Marsden Estate Winery, a delightful spot to dine, caress and dream amongst the vines and lazy ducks. With a smashing pan fried Orange Roughy within me we aimed for Managawai Heads, and got there 2 hours later. Dipping our extremities in the luke warm water felt fantastic, and my headache evaporated.

1.5 hours after that I reluctantly handed the Rangy back to its rightful owner, black beauty had served us very well indeed. No time to rest on our laurels we had 30min to freshen up, and make it to The Classic for The NZ Guild Comedy Awards. I have no idea what time they all started drinking, but my sobriety made me paranoid amongst the sea of drunk, swaying, comically abusive TV personalities, comedians and other various forms of media. I slurped on a few lagers and mellowed into the evening.

The funniest bit for me was not Brendhan Lovegrove’s arrogant acceptance speech when he won Male Comedian of 2008, and the cutting heckling that jabbed at him throughout it, but it was the inebriated C4 writer/producer/editor/actor who was announcing the winner (names not important, but he’s large and wearing a light blue suit in one of my photos this week). He chronically swayed (to the point of nearly keeling over) against the heavily decorated Christmas tree on the stage, it tipped then settled back into it’s original position. However a couple of decorations had, unbeknown to the prize-giver, attached themselves to his jacket. He got the hugest fright when they both dislodged at the same time a minute later, when he opened Brendhan’s bottle of pricey red pinot and necked half of it during Brendhan’s egotistical rant about being the best in the country. I’d hate to guess what went down after I departed, but I’m sure I’d be shocked, disappointed and just a little bit jealous, but nowhere near as jealous as I am of Beckham.

This was supposed to be my last Guide transmission for 2008, but I think I’ve got enough gusto left in me for one more. Get out there and get amongst it this week, I sure will be. Try and make my party at Spy Bar this Friday, it’s called Sleepless and will be a true eye-opener.